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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23198707">but then he's still left with his hands</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/ephemeralstar'>ephemeralstar</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blackwater, Fluff, Gen, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Pre-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:08:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,276</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23198707</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ephemeralstar/pseuds/ephemeralstar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is given the day off, learns a new skill, and reflects on the importance of civility, as taught by Hosea.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hosea Matthews &amp; Arthur Morgan, Mary-Beth Gaskill &amp; Arthur Morgan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>but then he's still left with his hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My boyfriend didn't like the idea of Arthur not wearings socks, and I like Hosea.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the first time in a long time, Arthur wakes with the sunrise, its golden fingers stretching through the split between moth-bitten curtains to pull him from a surprisingly restful sleep; not to the smoke of a dying fire, or bitter coffee, but to the gently floral  scent of a fresh bath being drawn just a floor below. Its a peaceful, if unfamiliar way to wake, and for the barest moment, Arthur lets himself luxuriate in it. He and Hosea had been doing some reconnaissance, and had hired rooms beside one another in this quaint establishment amid the bustling business of Blackwater's busy docks the night before, but Hosea has told Arthur to take the day following for himself. A rare opportunity, and a kind gesture. </p><p>The morning meanders in its lazy pace, and Arthur, still in his undershirt and long johns by the time the church bell rings nine, finally yawns, stretches, and gathers together his belt, holsters, hat, and various accoutrements, and makes his way down to the front desk, boots and equipment in hand. The man behind it, weasly wearing a moustache that only Trelawny could make fashionable, gives Arthur a smile that's all teeth and eager to please when he requests a bath. It's all '<em>of course, sir, right at the end of the hall, sir, if there's anything else let me know, sir</em>' which grates on Arthur's nerves with its insincerity, but the lavender-scented bath water wafting delicately through the air goes a ways to soothing him. </p><p>The bath itself is a luxury he doesn't often afford himself, not when a clear, flowing river is so readily available in the wild, but it was Hosea who reminded him '<em>we are not savages</em>' when Micah asked why they'd even bathe, only to get dirty again. Hosea lived by those words, and led by example. <em>We are not savages</em>. Arthur relaxed in the tub. </p><p>Refusing the offer of a deluxe bath, he finds peace in solidarity, and takes the time to scrub until his skin was pink as a pig's, shiny as a well oiled gun. Perhaps he's in there longer than he'd usually allow, but he's taking up Hosea's suggestion to take the day for himself. With only himself to answer to, he finds no shame in meandering as time is want to do on days such as these. </p><p>Its only when he leaves the bath, pulling back on his various layers, that he discovers, much to his dismay, the hole in the heel of his left sock. Its not unexpected, old socks are magnets for holes, though it is disappointing. It's just passed nine thirty when he steps from the establishment with the intent to head back to camp.</p><p>"Why Mister Morgan, you look like a choir boy," Micah's grin is malicious over the lip of his bitter, overroasted coffee the moment Arthur steps into camp, "you here to look down upon the unwashed masses?"</p><p>"Micah, I'd only look down on you if I could stand to look at you, you donkey's ass," its half a joke, but Micah, at the very least, seemed to find it amusing, and that was all the talk the pair would share for the day. Arthur, instead, went to Mary-Beth. </p><p>While his skill with charcoal and led was undeniable, he'd never spent much time with needle and thread. It's with gentle exasperation that Mary-Beth tells him that he needs to wash his socks before she'll even think of darning them for him, and for a beat Arthur's embarrassed, before agreeing. When he goes to apologise, Mary-Beth gives him a fond smile as she waves it off.</p><p>They sit by the river together, his socks drying on a rock, her shoes off beside herself, the pair enjoying the grass between their toes, in the dirt, enjoying each other's company. While she asks after how he's been keeping up with his new journal, he asks after her creative endeavours. Adamant that he's never had a mind for novels, he admires her aspirations; the young woman's dreams lay beyond this ruinous life they currently lead, and he'd be damned if he didn't encourage that. </p><p>With socks dry, they step gently back to camp, her arm tucked daintily into his for support, sun warmed, midday drawing ever closer.</p><p>There's a hesitation, a shifting of ideas back at camp, of Mary-Beth with thread in hand, pausing before she hands over the sewing equipment, explaination on her tongue; <em>its a vital skill.</em></p><p>Hosea's words find him in this moment, a long forgotten memory, the strangest deja vu. </p><p><em>When our things break, we try to fix them. We are not savages</em>.</p><p>At the time, Arthur hadn't wanted to hear it, had been too young to appreciate Hosea's unrelenting civility, had clung to Dutch's brash idealism and shoot-first severity. With Mary-Beth, he takes the thread without hesitation, watches her delicates hands work and tries to copy the intricate movement to the best of his ability. With Mary-Beth, he learns part of the lesson that Hosea had been trying to instil in him, in the gang, for so long. </p><p>The stitching is uneven around the patch he'd sewn in place of the heel, the hole too large to be sewn up comfortably, dirty beige thread holding the new material in place. She congratulates him, but his self-awareness sees all too clearly the difference between his messy stitching and her neat thread; he waves off her compliment with a humble hand. </p><p>Practice, she tells him, all he needs is practice. Gentle and earnest, her voice has an underlying seriousness that even has her sounding like Hosea. All this for a sock. </p><p>Lunch he takes with the rest of the gang, stew beneath a perfectly blue sky, like a dream, like a memory of a simpler time. The sky, he muses, is always bluer looking back. </p><p>Dutch's eyes twinkle as he asks after Arthur and Hosea's scheme, cigar between his lips like he's celebrating or scheming of his own accord. Arthur answers honestly; things are looking promising, promising enough that he's been given the day off. </p><p>"Hosea's always been soft on you," but it doesn't sound like an accusation or insult coming from Dutch, the way Arthur would expect, rather it's fond, like he's looking into past, picking a pattern that warms his heart. </p><p>"Just because he ain't runnin' me into the ground don't mean he's gone soft," Arthur feels the need to defend himself and his mentor, watching as Dutch huffs out a laugh, smoke rising with the sound.</p><p>"Never accused him of going soft, my boy, I know as well as anyone that he could talk the stripes off a zebra," Dutch's eyes are still shining with fond mirth, "but this must be quite the scheme if he's sure there's time for time off."</p><p>"Perhaps Hosea just knows there's diminishing returns when working someone to the bone," Tilly is quick to his defense, but Dutch does not seem inclined to disagree.</p><p>Arthur watches, sipping his stew as the gang banters about him, with nowhere pressing to be, and no-one to report to, he knows he is free to keep their company as long as he pleases, a fact which brings him a strange sort of contentment. Or perhaps its the gentle lavender residue along his skin, or the accomplishment of feeling his newly-darned sock on his foot. </p><p>Or perhaps it's the knowledge that his partner in crime evidentially has his best interests at heart.</p><p>"Yes," Dutch went on, bringing Arthur from his thoughts and nodding sagely, "he has always been fond of reminding me that even in our darkest times, we are not savages."</p>
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